The King of Winter
by Oberon Sexton
Summary: The Starks have manned the Wall for centuries, and many great heroes have sprung from that line. But there is one who would change the Night's Watch forever..


**I own nothing.**

The lapping of water in his ears. That was the first thing. The lapping of water, the rustling of trees, the odd click and cry of a bird.

Brandon opened his eyes a crack. Light, blurry bright through leaves. This was death? Then why did it hurt so much? By the gods his head hurt. He tried to take a breath, choked, coughed up water, spat out mud. He groaned, flopped over onto his hands and knees, dragged himself up out of the river, gasping through clenched teeth, rolled onto his back in the snow and slime and rotten sticks at the water's edge.

He lay there for a moment, staring up at the grey sky beyond the black branches, breath wheezing in his raw throat.

Soaking wet and flat on his back, he started to chuckle, reedy, gurgling laughter. "You haven't won yet," he croaked to himself.

A cold wind blew across the river bank, and Brandon's laughter slowly died. He was alive, but staying alive was another matter entirely. He sat up, wincing in pain. He tottered to his feet, leaning against the nearest tree trunk. He scraped the dirt and snow out of his nose, his eyes, and his ears.

He still had a knife in the sheath at his belt, which was better than he could have hoped for, but his outlook was still bleak. He was on his own, in a forest crawling with Wildlings. He had no idea where he was but he could follow the river southwards, against its current and in time he'd be back at the Wall. That was his only chance.

Brandon looked down, he was missing a boot. Likely it had been washed away in the current when he fell into the river. In his present state he wouldn't last long, not in the snow. _My hands and feet will turn black in the night and I'll die bit by bit before I even reach the wall. If I don't starve first._

The only choice he had was to return to his camp and hope that the Wildlings had moved on, hope that they'd left something behind that he could use to survive. He had to hop most of the way, but he had no choice in that matter. _I never have any choices._

It started to snow by the time Brandon found the place. The air was full of big white flakes that plastered his hair to his skull and made his breath smoke. He pressed himself against a large tree and peered out towards the camp, heart pounding, fingers of his right hand curled painfully tight around his knife.

He saw odd bits of torn and broken gear scattered about the camp, but otherwise no one else. He could never be sure that someone else wasn't close by; his father and then his instructors at Castle Black at had taught him that, so he had to be quick.

Brandon hurried over, eyes and ears alert. One of his brothers had left some of their gear unattended and none of the Wildlings had deigned to steal any of it. He rummaged through it all until he came across an old cloak, black as pitch. Using his knife he cut it up and bundled it around his foot, over and over with several layers and wrapped it up using what rope he could find. It wasn't as sturdy as he would have liked, nor was it as spacious for his toes, but it would serve.

There had been a tattered blanket snagged on a branch, wet and half caked in grim. It had been slashed, but there was no blood on it as far as he could tell. Brandon looked over the campsite again. Arrows littered about, yet no bodies. When the Wildlings had attacked them Brandon had raced after the savages into the depths of the forest, trying to kill them where they lived, but that had only gotten him hurt and thrown into a river. _Mayhaps the others are still alive,_ he thought desperately. _Mayhaps if I took a risk and went to look…_

_"_No." he said it quietly, under his breath. He knew better than that. There had been a lot of wildlings, and he had no idea of how long he had been laying on the river bank. Even if a couple of his sworn brothers had gotten away, the wildlings would be hunting them through the forest. It was likely that they were all dead anyway. All Brandon could do was make for the Wall and try and save his own sorry life.

Brandon woke with a painful jolt. He was laying awkwardly, head twisted against something hard, knees drawn up towards his chest. He opened his eyes a bleary crack. It was dark, but there was a faint glow coming from somewhere. Light through snow.

Panic stabbed at him. He knew where he was now. He had piled some snow in the entrance to the tiny cave, to try and keep in the warmth, such as it was. It must have snowed while he was sleeping, and sealed him in. If the fall had been a heavy one there could be a lot of snow outside his tiny haven. Brandon had seen drifts deep enough to swallow a man up, and if it was anything like that then he might never get out. He could have climbed all the way up out of the Wildling valleys just to die in a hole in the rock, too cramped for him to even stretch out his legs.

Brandon twisted round in the narrow space as best he could, dug away at the snow with numb hands, floundering at it, grappling with it, hacking through it, mouthing breathless curses to himself. Light spilled in suddenly, searing bright. He shoved the last of the snow out of the way and dragged himself through into the open air.

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was blazing overhead. He turned his face towards it, closed his stinging eyes and let the light wash over him. The air was painful cold in his throat. His mouth was dry as dust, and his tongue felt like a piece of badly carved wood. He scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it in his mouth and let it melt before swallowing.

He floundered to his feet and stared about. A narrow valley, steep sided and choked with snow. Three great peaks surrounded it, piles of dark grey stone and white snow against the blue sky. He vaguely remembered the lord commander showing him a map of the area; the peaks stood out in his memory and filled him with hope. He was in familiar territory.

Despite his recognition of the place, Brandon knew that if he didn't keep moving he'd be dead within days. His stomach was a great, painful hole that called to him with piercing cries. He fumbled around for the last of his food. It was little more than single mouthful of salted beef, and would hardly fill the hole, but it was all he had. He tore at it with his teeth, tough as old boot leather, and choked it down with some snow.

Brandon shielded his eyes with his arm and looked southward down the valley, the way to the wall. He couldn't quite see the mighty structure of ice with any certainty, but he knew it wasn't far off. Just a few more days south and he would be home.

Home. It was an odd word for Brandon, had been ever since he left Winterfell to make his own way in life. He had to adjust to the harsh and structured life of the Watch and learn to go without some of the small pleasures that Winterfell had given him. He could remember the proud look on his father's face when he told him he would join the Watch. His brother had Edwyn grinned at him as though he heard some stupid joke and it had been all Brandon could do not to hit the man.

He spat in the snow, brown spit from the dry meat. His brother was sitting in a warm hall, sharing his bed with a lovely wife and father to a brood of beautiful children. Brandon was out in the cold eating dry meat and snow, his only companion was the ice.

Brandon set his jaw and clenched his fists under the rotten shreds of his cloak. He spat again. Now that he had spit he thought that he might as well make the most of it. He would make it back to the Wall, and live. Just to spite his brother and the rest. Brandon took in a long, cold breath, and blew it out. "Just you watch," he muttered. "This won't stop me." Then he pulled up his tattered black cloak, threw it over his head and then began to flounder through the deep snow. Downwards, southwards, back home.

It was raining. A soft rain that coated everything in cold dew, collected on the branches, on the leaves, on the needles , and dripped off in great fat drops that soaked through Brandon's wet clothes and onto his wet skin.

He felt the great motion of the forest and heard all its thousand sounds. The countless crawling of the insects, the blind scuttling of moles, the timid rustling of the rabbit, the slow pulsing of the sap in the old tree trunks. Each thing alive in the forest was in search of its own kind of food, and Brandon was the same. He let his mind settle on an animal close to him, moving cautiously through the woods to his right. the forest grew silent but for the endless dripping of water from the branches. The world shrank down to Brandon and his next meal.

When it moved close enough, he sprang forward and bore down onto the wet ground. A rabbit. It struggled and writhed to get free of his grip but he was bigger and had his weight bearing down on it. He gave it one sharp twist of its neck and all was silent once more.

It was sunset when he reached his camp. It was little more than two big sticks holding a load of damp branches over a hollow in the dirt, but it was halfway dry in there and the rain had stopped. He would have a fire tonight, even if it made him a target for Joramun's people. He would risk it tonight; it had been long since he had a treat like that.

He was slowly skinning his tiny rabbit when he first heard something cut through the air. Brandon knew the sounds of the forest well, and what he was hearing was not normal. At first he grabbed hold of his meagre knife and rose to his feet, eyeing his surroundings cautiously. He could see nothing in the looming dark, his fire sending shadows and shapes everywhere, playing tricks with his eyes.

Yet the sound continued.

It was an odd sound, like the crackling of ice yet somehow strung together in an even tempo. It was at once sharp and soft, and to Brandon it sounded faintly like…singing. He felt suddenly very sad and took a few steps closer to the direction of the voice. Once he moved past the light of his fire and into the darkness the sounds began to grow clearer, as if the voice was whispering into his ear, as soft a lovers kiss.

"Anyone there?" he called with a shaky voice.

At once the singing stopped and a shiver ran up Brandon's spine. He looked around in the darkness, eyes struggling to find anything in the gloom. With a tired sigh he slowly lurched back to his camp and sat down by the flames. He wasn't sure why but the fire seemed to hold little comfort to him anymore and he kept his eyes locked to the darkness that surrounded him. Before he went to sleep that night he thought he saw a pair of eyes watching him.

The bluest eyes he had ever seen.


End file.
